Tomorrow is my birthday. Last year on my birthday, this happened:
So it's my birthday and I got all dolled up and took myself to see a show. Coming home on the Q train, there's this drunk and/or insane guy who looks like a cross between an albino and someone with that disease where they can't grow any hair, like eyebrows or anything. He starts shouting, "Miss! Hey, miss!"
Please don't let him be talking to me, please don't let him be talking to me...
"Hey, miss! White girl!"
Damn it, he's talking to me.
I'm wearing open-toe heels, and when I make the mistake of shifting a fraction of an inch in his direction when the train hits a bump, he says, loud enough for the rest of the car to enjoy, "Those are some sexy shoes. Can I kiss your toes, baby?"
I'm trying to just ignore him, but he keeps repeating himself, and women all around me are trying not to laugh and murmuring, "Oh, you poor thing," so finally I shout, "Sorry, I've got someone." Even though I don't, and I'm actually kind of bummed about that. And why do I always feel the need to be polite to these lunatics?
"Ok, ok, I respect that," he says. "But I'm real good. I'm real good! I bet I could do it better for you than him!"
"Probably not," I tell him. "He has a foot fetish." [Based on actual events.]
Everyone around me bursts out laughing. My admirer is only momentarily thrown for a loop, but eventually bounces right back and keeps yelling shit and trying to get my attention until he finally gets off the train 2 stops later.
Once the doors close and he's gone, the other passengers all start looking around and shaking their heads and laughing under their breath. The girl in the seat next to me leans over and says, "That was good. How does that not creep you out?"
Lady, I want to tell her, I'm used to it.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Psychic Misadventures
Some highlights of my family's group psychic reading held last Monday night:
Sister, in regard to grandparents who died before my siblings and I were born: "What do they say about us?"
Brother, interrupting before psychic can answer: "They're very disappointed in you. Me and Becky are fine, though."
Psychic, holding a picture of our other grandfather: "I'm seeing him surrounded by a ring of fire..."
Me: "Grandpa is Johnny Cash?!?"
Additional Tidbits:
* I am getting married in 2015. It will be a small ceremony. It will probably be held in a VFW hall. [EDITOR'S NOTE: This sounds so tacky that it saddens me.]
* I'm joining the Peace Corps.
* No mention of whether or not I am still gay.
This psychic was a customer at my mom's job who, incidentally, was also the father of a friend of my cousin. A co-worker had invited him to her house to do a reading for some friends, just for kicks, and he had been surprisingly accurate on a few things (except for that minor gay one...), so we thought we'd give it a try, too, again, just for fun.
My mom had informed us that at the end of the session, we could each ask 3 questions. I couldn't think of a single question all day. No, correction: I could think of many questions, but as mentioned in a similar scenario in Eat Pray Love (put your literary objections aside for just a moment), "I was rightly ashamed of myself for these thoughts: who travels all the way around the world to meet an ancient medicine man in Indonesia, only to ask him to intercede in boy troubles?" ["Dear Psychic Man: Will Neil go out with me? Check yes, no, or maybe."] I mentioned this troublesome dilemma to my sister, who wisely replied, "He's not a Balinese medicine man, though. He's just Lisa Altieri's dad."
The only legitimate inquiry I could come up with was, will I ever have kids? As I've written here before, I'm approaching an age at which my fertility will soon be plummeting, and from a practical standpoint, I am in no position to support a child — I'm barely responsible enough to take care of a cat. And so, intellectually, I have come to terms with this. I know I am not ready, and anyway, I am terrified of the idea of childbirth [NOTE TO SELF: NEVER watch Agnes of God and Rosemary's Baby back-to-back ever again.] And, as I frequently remind myself, adoption is always an option. Yet there is still that occasional pang of loss when I spy a chubby, giggling baby on the subway, or when imagining how gorgeous "our" kids would have been if I was married to [insert boy-du-jour here]. It's really the only issue in my life about which I have no real measure of certainty. So at least I had one question.
The psychic arrived at the house, we all settled around the dining room table, and the first thing he said, pointing directly at me before I even asked, was: "You're going to have twin girls."
I don't necessarily believe him, but...wow.
Sister, in regard to grandparents who died before my siblings and I were born: "What do they say about us?"
Brother, interrupting before psychic can answer: "They're very disappointed in you. Me and Becky are fine, though."
Psychic, holding a picture of our other grandfather: "I'm seeing him surrounded by a ring of fire..."
Me: "Grandpa is Johnny Cash?!?"
Additional Tidbits:
* I am getting married in 2015. It will be a small ceremony. It will probably be held in a VFW hall. [EDITOR'S NOTE: This sounds so tacky that it saddens me.]
* I'm joining the Peace Corps.
* No mention of whether or not I am still gay.
This psychic was a customer at my mom's job who, incidentally, was also the father of a friend of my cousin. A co-worker had invited him to her house to do a reading for some friends, just for kicks, and he had been surprisingly accurate on a few things (except for that minor gay one...), so we thought we'd give it a try, too, again, just for fun.
My mom had informed us that at the end of the session, we could each ask 3 questions. I couldn't think of a single question all day. No, correction: I could think of many questions, but as mentioned in a similar scenario in Eat Pray Love (put your literary objections aside for just a moment), "I was rightly ashamed of myself for these thoughts: who travels all the way around the world to meet an ancient medicine man in Indonesia, only to ask him to intercede in boy troubles?" ["Dear Psychic Man: Will Neil go out with me? Check yes, no, or maybe."] I mentioned this troublesome dilemma to my sister, who wisely replied, "He's not a Balinese medicine man, though. He's just Lisa Altieri's dad."
The only legitimate inquiry I could come up with was, will I ever have kids? As I've written here before, I'm approaching an age at which my fertility will soon be plummeting, and from a practical standpoint, I am in no position to support a child — I'm barely responsible enough to take care of a cat. And so, intellectually, I have come to terms with this. I know I am not ready, and anyway, I am terrified of the idea of childbirth [NOTE TO SELF: NEVER watch Agnes of God and Rosemary's Baby back-to-back ever again.] And, as I frequently remind myself, adoption is always an option. Yet there is still that occasional pang of loss when I spy a chubby, giggling baby on the subway, or when imagining how gorgeous "our" kids would have been if I was married to [insert boy-du-jour here]. It's really the only issue in my life about which I have no real measure of certainty. So at least I had one question.
The psychic arrived at the house, we all settled around the dining room table, and the first thing he said, pointing directly at me before I even asked, was: "You're going to have twin girls."
I don't necessarily believe him, but...wow.
I Was Here First.
The fucking neighbors were at it again last night, right on schedule, with the obnoxious, wall-thumpingly loud shitty rap music, so I decided to battle back with this, full volume, on repeat, while singing along:
Ruby — Tiny Meat
Just as gratifying as it was in college, despite Lesley Rankine's disturbing facial resemblance to Michael Jackson...
Thank you, Cleveland!
Ruby — Tiny Meat
Just as gratifying as it was in college, despite Lesley Rankine's disturbing facial resemblance to Michael Jackson...
Thank you, Cleveland!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
We Are Glam-ily...
Got my early birthday present from my mom and my sister tonight:
I AM GOING TO SEE ADAM LAMBERT!!!
Passport to Glam Nation gets stamped June 23rd. I can not WAIT to put together an outfit for this!
Thank you, Cleveland!
UPDATE: Ticket says "16+". Thank goodness I just squeaked by there...
I AM GOING TO SEE ADAM LAMBERT!!!
Passport to Glam Nation gets stamped June 23rd. I can not WAIT to put together an outfit for this!
Thank you, Cleveland!
UPDATE: Ticket says "16+". Thank goodness I just squeaked by there...
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Customer Is Always Right
About a week ago, I bought a movie from Border's. Idiot that I am, I didn't realize until I got home and opened the case and tried to play said movie that it was a Blu-Ray disc and not a regular DVD. My DVD player does not play Blu-Ray discs. So today I tried to return it.
Me: "Hi, I'd like to return this movie. I have the receipt."
Cashier: "The box is open."
Me: "I know, I didn't realize it wouldn't work in my DVD player until I tried to play it."
Cashier: "We can't give you a refund if the box is open."
Me: "Well, what about store credit?"
Cashier: "Umm...let me ask my manager."
[Cashier confers with manager. Manager approaches.]
Manager: "I'm sorry ma'am. We can't give you a refund if the box has been opened."
Me: "Not even store credit?"
Manager: "Not unless the disc is damaged. Is it damaged?"
Me: "No."
Manager: "We can only give you a refund if it's damaged."
Me: "Well, what if I damage it myself right now. Then can I return it?"
Manager: "Umm...I'm sorry. That's not our policy."
So I think I'm just going to "damage" the disc tonight and try another Border's tomorrow...
Me: "Hi, I'd like to return this movie. I have the receipt."
Cashier: "The box is open."
Me: "I know, I didn't realize it wouldn't work in my DVD player until I tried to play it."
Cashier: "We can't give you a refund if the box is open."
Me: "Well, what about store credit?"
Cashier: "Umm...let me ask my manager."
[Cashier confers with manager. Manager approaches.]
Manager: "I'm sorry ma'am. We can't give you a refund if the box has been opened."
Me: "Not even store credit?"
Manager: "Not unless the disc is damaged. Is it damaged?"
Me: "No."
Manager: "We can only give you a refund if it's damaged."
Me: "Well, what if I damage it myself right now. Then can I return it?"
Manager: "Umm...I'm sorry. That's not our policy."
So I think I'm just going to "damage" the disc tonight and try another Border's tomorrow...
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Timing Is Everything/Life Goes On
Someone was shot outside my building today.
I don't know when it happened. I didn't even know it had happened until I went downstairs around 4 to pick up my food from the delivery guy. There was police tape all up and down the block and an officer at the door explaining that no one could leave the building.
I was bewildered. "What happened?"
The cop replied, with a look like I had 2 heads, "Someone got shot."
Jesus Christ.
I went back inside, joined the others loitering in the lobby — the couple watching out the window, the guy waiting to walk his dog — and called the restaurant to cancel my order: "I'm sorry. There's police activity outside my building and I can't leave."
Two women in suits came in to take our names and apartment numbers. In typical unfazed New Yorker fashion, we all asked how long it was going to take before we could go back outside. No one asked about the victim. I waited around for a few more minutes then went back upstairs.
I was still hungry. About an hour later, I wandered back down to see if any progress had been made. We were allowed out of the building now, but the road was still blocked off to cars. Crowds had gathered on both sides of the street. There were two cops standing off to the side of the courtyard next to a white sheet on the ground. I naïvely thought nothing of this. Just some sort of clean-up thing, I assumed. I walked down the block to the deli and got a sandwich.
Back home, about 2 hours later, I got up to feed the cat and realized there was only about a scoopful of food left in the bag. Walgreen's is still open, I thought; I figured the police must be done by now. I put on my sneakers, grabbed my keys and headed back outside.
Downstairs, they were just beginning to roll up the police tape. Someone was wailing. I looked over to the spot on the right where the cops had been before. There was an ambulance parked by the curb. They were wheeling out a body.
Jesus Christ.
There were 2 guys standing near me, looking pensive. "Do they know who it is?" I asked. "Was it someone from this building?"
"I don't know," the guy closest to me answered. "Crazy shit. It's like something you see on TV right here in front of you."
His friend shook his head and said, "Just some punks. And all these people taking pictures and taping it on their phones. That's just ignorant."
We stood in silence until the ambulance drove away. The wailing had stopped. The cops rolled up the last of the tape. I made my way to Walgreen's.
On my way back, it seemed like business as usual back on the block — the same old guys sitting on folding chairs in front of the bodega, the same women pushing strollers and shopping carts past the laundromat, the same bunch of kids shouting on the sidewalk across the street.
There were faint traces of blood on the concrete outside the building, and a single flickering white candle.
I don't know when it happened. I didn't even know it had happened until I went downstairs around 4 to pick up my food from the delivery guy. There was police tape all up and down the block and an officer at the door explaining that no one could leave the building.
I was bewildered. "What happened?"
The cop replied, with a look like I had 2 heads, "Someone got shot."
Jesus Christ.
I went back inside, joined the others loitering in the lobby — the couple watching out the window, the guy waiting to walk his dog — and called the restaurant to cancel my order: "I'm sorry. There's police activity outside my building and I can't leave."
Two women in suits came in to take our names and apartment numbers. In typical unfazed New Yorker fashion, we all asked how long it was going to take before we could go back outside. No one asked about the victim. I waited around for a few more minutes then went back upstairs.
I was still hungry. About an hour later, I wandered back down to see if any progress had been made. We were allowed out of the building now, but the road was still blocked off to cars. Crowds had gathered on both sides of the street. There were two cops standing off to the side of the courtyard next to a white sheet on the ground. I naïvely thought nothing of this. Just some sort of clean-up thing, I assumed. I walked down the block to the deli and got a sandwich.
Back home, about 2 hours later, I got up to feed the cat and realized there was only about a scoopful of food left in the bag. Walgreen's is still open, I thought; I figured the police must be done by now. I put on my sneakers, grabbed my keys and headed back outside.
Downstairs, they were just beginning to roll up the police tape. Someone was wailing. I looked over to the spot on the right where the cops had been before. There was an ambulance parked by the curb. They were wheeling out a body.
Jesus Christ.
There were 2 guys standing near me, looking pensive. "Do they know who it is?" I asked. "Was it someone from this building?"
"I don't know," the guy closest to me answered. "Crazy shit. It's like something you see on TV right here in front of you."
His friend shook his head and said, "Just some punks. And all these people taking pictures and taping it on their phones. That's just ignorant."
We stood in silence until the ambulance drove away. The wailing had stopped. The cops rolled up the last of the tape. I made my way to Walgreen's.
On my way back, it seemed like business as usual back on the block — the same old guys sitting on folding chairs in front of the bodega, the same women pushing strollers and shopping carts past the laundromat, the same bunch of kids shouting on the sidewalk across the street.
There were faint traces of blood on the concrete outside the building, and a single flickering white candle.
Friday, May 21, 2010
They Sure Know How To Pick Their Battles...
Westboro Baptist Church To Picket Funeral Of Ronnie James Dio
Please, God, let this be true: I can not WAIT to see what happens to these assholes when they show up in front of thousands of grieving Black Sabbath fans. And it's going down on my birthday! Some badass biker beating the shit out of Fred Phelps would be one of the BEST PRESENTS EVER!!!
GOD HATES DOUCHEBAGS!!!
Please, God, let this be true: I can not WAIT to see what happens to these assholes when they show up in front of thousands of grieving Black Sabbath fans. And it's going down on my birthday! Some badass biker beating the shit out of Fred Phelps would be one of the BEST PRESENTS EVER!!!
GOD HATES DOUCHEBAGS!!!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Why I May Not Be Cut Out For eHarmony, or, What? It Can Reveal A Lot About A Person!
Today I got to the "ask your own questions" stage with one of my eHarmony matches. My first question:
"Would you rather fight a zombie or a giant spider?"
It's best to get the fundamentals out of the way right off the bat...
"Would you rather fight a zombie or a giant spider?"
It's best to get the fundamentals out of the way right off the bat...
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Employee Of The Month
Overheard in the cubicle across from me: "Oh, good. As long as she doesn't know what she's talking about, we're ok."
Hooray for competence!
Hooray for competence!
De-Laid Gratification
Twitter keeps acting like the last guy I slept with today: "Whoops! Something went wrong. Please try again."
So fucking unsatisfying...
So fucking unsatisfying...
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Relativism
Swear to God, exact quote heard outside the bodega near my apartment:
"What you saying, nigga? I ain't no good man? I never shot no one!"
My 'hood's full of upstanding citizens...
"What you saying, nigga? I ain't no good man? I never shot no one!"
My 'hood's full of upstanding citizens...
Monday, May 17, 2010
Supernatural
Last night I predicted the winner of Survivor AND the Miss USA pageant. And tonight I see the psychic that told my mom I was gay. This oughtta be good...
Thursday, May 13, 2010
"Electroslag Flux" Should Totally Be A Superhero Name
I haven't done one of these in a while, so here's a "quickie"...
"Table QB-120: Test Positions for Lap, Butt, or Rabbit Joints"
"TW-130: Full Penetration Nozzle Attachments Requiring Special Techniques Including Multiple Exposures"
"Fig. TD-420: Some Acceptable Methods of Attaching Stiffening Rings"
"UB-33: Buttstraps"
"Table TD-660: Reinforcement of Multiple Openings"
"KM-230: Straightness Tolerance"
"NC-3225: Typical Flat Heads and Supported and Unsupported Tubesheets With Hubs" [For some reason, this makes me think of circumcision...]
"ND-3700: Electrical and Mechanical Penetration Assemblies"
"B-2: Typical Butt Joints"
"NC-2586: Examination of Studs and Nuts"
"Table QB-120: Test Positions for Lap, Butt, or Rabbit Joints"
"TW-130: Full Penetration Nozzle Attachments Requiring Special Techniques Including Multiple Exposures"
"Fig. TD-420: Some Acceptable Methods of Attaching Stiffening Rings"
"UB-33: Buttstraps"
"Table TD-660: Reinforcement of Multiple Openings"
"KM-230: Straightness Tolerance"
"NC-3225: Typical Flat Heads and Supported and Unsupported Tubesheets With Hubs" [For some reason, this makes me think of circumcision...]
"ND-3700: Electrical and Mechanical Penetration Assemblies"
"B-2: Typical Butt Joints"
"NC-2586: Examination of Studs and Nuts"
Monday, May 10, 2010
One Ring To Find Them...
When I started at my last job, I was working in the mailroom. This was only a temporary position, a stop-gap measure between "real" jobs, since I needed health insurance and didn't qualify for unemployment.
[NOTE TO SELF: Insubordination is not considered a legitimate cause for termination. Stop telling your superiors to fuck off.]
The mailroom of this particular company was located in the basement of the building, and this was rather symbolic, since this was also where they stuck all the people who they had to hire yet had no real positions for. My immediate co-workers were therefore the mentally challenged, the part-time high-school kids, and the non-English speakers with names like "Mukesh" and "Pannakumar." And I worked the overnight shift. So...yeah. It was a real freak show.
To top it all off, one of the supervisors in the basement had the annoying habit of walking into an area and instead of actually looking for the person he wanted, just standing there and repeatedly shouting, "Where is [insert employee's name here]?"
Example:
[SUPERVISOR enters stock room. Stands in doorway, immobile.]
Supervisor: "WHERE IS JOE?"
[Silence. Pause.]
Supervisor: "WHERE IS JOE?"
[Silence. Pause.]
Supervisor: "WHERE IS JOE?"
[Silence. Pause.]
Supervisor: "WHERE IS JOE?"
Not Joe: "Jesus Christ, he's obviously not here! Why don't you try the fuckin' toilet, for fuck's sake?"
[NOTE TO SELF: For future reference, answers such as these qualify as "insubordination."]
So, one day, I'm sitting at my desk, peacefully processing claim files, when everyone's favorite supervisor, in search of a certain unusually-named employee, appears in the doorway of the file room and bellows:
"WHERE IS ROHAN?
I shout back, "IT'S NEAR ISENGARD!"
Silence. Pause.
"Oh, c'mon, people — Rohan? Isengard? Lord of the Rings? No...?"
Silence. Pause.
Supervisor: "WHERE IS ROHAN?"
Ah, phooey. My witticism wasted on these philistines.
[NOTE TO SELF: Insubordination is not considered a legitimate cause for termination. Stop telling your superiors to fuck off.]
The mailroom of this particular company was located in the basement of the building, and this was rather symbolic, since this was also where they stuck all the people who they had to hire yet had no real positions for. My immediate co-workers were therefore the mentally challenged, the part-time high-school kids, and the non-English speakers with names like "Mukesh" and "Pannakumar." And I worked the overnight shift. So...yeah. It was a real freak show.
To top it all off, one of the supervisors in the basement had the annoying habit of walking into an area and instead of actually looking for the person he wanted, just standing there and repeatedly shouting, "Where is [insert employee's name here]?"
Example:
[SUPERVISOR enters stock room. Stands in doorway, immobile.]
Supervisor: "WHERE IS JOE?"
[Silence. Pause.]
Supervisor: "WHERE IS JOE?"
[Silence. Pause.]
Supervisor: "WHERE IS JOE?"
[Silence. Pause.]
Supervisor: "WHERE IS JOE?"
Not Joe: "Jesus Christ, he's obviously not here! Why don't you try the fuckin' toilet, for fuck's sake?"
[NOTE TO SELF: For future reference, answers such as these qualify as "insubordination."]
So, one day, I'm sitting at my desk, peacefully processing claim files, when everyone's favorite supervisor, in search of a certain unusually-named employee, appears in the doorway of the file room and bellows:
"WHERE IS ROHAN?
I shout back, "IT'S NEAR ISENGARD!"
Silence. Pause.
"Oh, c'mon, people — Rohan? Isengard? Lord of the Rings? No...?"
Silence. Pause.
Supervisor: "WHERE IS ROHAN?"
Ah, phooey. My witticism wasted on these philistines.
In All The Wrong Places
So, in a moment of weakness, I joined eHarmony last night, and the first thing they did was bill me for the incorrect membership package and overcharge me by $60.
If this is a sign of things to come, I swear to fuckin' God...
If this is a sign of things to come, I swear to fuckin' God...
Friday, May 7, 2010
"MTA" Doesn't Stand For "Macho Testosterone Asshole"
No lie, there was a guy in my subway car last night doing chin-ups on the ceiling bar.
Not even in front of an empty seat, but with people sitting right in front of him. I'm sure he really impressed them with his manly and daring display of strength, as well as with his stylish ensemble consisting of a wifebeater and shorts hanging off his ass.
And I'm really pissed he got off at the stop right before mine because I was all ready to walk up to him and be like, "Hey, that's a great trick! Want to see another one?" and do a Firefly spin on the "stripper" pole next to him. Because I know without a doubt that would have aroused his caveman interest, and when he then predictably tried to hit on me, I could have actually used the line, "Sorry, you're a douche."
Man, that would have been priceless.
Not even in front of an empty seat, but with people sitting right in front of him. I'm sure he really impressed them with his manly and daring display of strength, as well as with his stylish ensemble consisting of a wifebeater and shorts hanging off his ass.
And I'm really pissed he got off at the stop right before mine because I was all ready to walk up to him and be like, "Hey, that's a great trick! Want to see another one?" and do a Firefly spin on the "stripper" pole next to him. Because I know without a doubt that would have aroused his caveman interest, and when he then predictably tried to hit on me, I could have actually used the line, "Sorry, you're a douche."
Man, that would have been priceless.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
"Why Does Grandpa Say 'God Bless You' Even When We Don't Sneeze?"
My grandfather, God bless his soul, had some of the strangest theories I've ever heard in my life. First, there was the one about keeping a rubber band around the top of the opened milk carton to keep the "milk gas" from escaping and turning it sour. Then there was the one where he explained that reaching into the mailbox every time he left the house would make any burglars watching think he was turning on an alarm so they wouldn't rob the place. And the one where he concluded that the reason he had so much hair on his back was because he spent so much time outside without a shirt on and this had somehow caused him to "evolve." God bless him.
But my all-time favorite was laid out during a conversation about walking at Robert Moses beach. My grandfather had been doing this for as long as I could remember, and kept on doing it well into his 70s. He was one tough old son-of-a-gun. He'd go practically every day, from one end all the way to the other and back again. I don't even know how many miles that is. But I do know that smack in the middle of that course is Field 5 — the infamous "clothing-optional" area. Grandpa wasn't particularly fond of Field 5, and he elucidated it thusly:
Grandpa: "I don't like going past the nude beach, see, because mosquitoes could come down from the dunes and bite the gays, and then they could bite me and give me the AIDS."
...
Wow, Grandpa.
There are SO many things wrong with that statement. First: Not all people on the nude beach are gay. Second: Not all gay people have AIDS. And third: Mosquitoes don't even transmit AIDS. There is not a SINGLE POINT of this theory that makes any sense whatsoever.
We tried to explain this to him, but he kept earnestly interrupting, "No, see, the mosquitoes don't have the AIDS, but they could bite the gays and that would give them the AIDS."
"But Grandpa, mosquitoes can't get AIDS."
"No, but see, if they bite the gays..."
Und so weiter. Exasperating.
Years later, on a mostly male-dominated message board, I discovered the Internet meme "teh ghey" and in a strange way, despite it's moronic implications, it delighted me to no end. Crazy memories...
Oh, Grandpa. God bless you. :)
But my all-time favorite was laid out during a conversation about walking at Robert Moses beach. My grandfather had been doing this for as long as I could remember, and kept on doing it well into his 70s. He was one tough old son-of-a-gun. He'd go practically every day, from one end all the way to the other and back again. I don't even know how many miles that is. But I do know that smack in the middle of that course is Field 5 — the infamous "clothing-optional" area. Grandpa wasn't particularly fond of Field 5, and he elucidated it thusly:
Grandpa: "I don't like going past the nude beach, see, because mosquitoes could come down from the dunes and bite the gays, and then they could bite me and give me the AIDS."
...
Wow, Grandpa.
There are SO many things wrong with that statement. First: Not all people on the nude beach are gay. Second: Not all gay people have AIDS. And third: Mosquitoes don't even transmit AIDS. There is not a SINGLE POINT of this theory that makes any sense whatsoever.
We tried to explain this to him, but he kept earnestly interrupting, "No, see, the mosquitoes don't have the AIDS, but they could bite the gays and that would give them the AIDS."
"But Grandpa, mosquitoes can't get AIDS."
"No, but see, if they bite the gays..."
Und so weiter. Exasperating.
Years later, on a mostly male-dominated message board, I discovered the Internet meme "teh ghey" and in a strange way, despite it's moronic implications, it delighted me to no end. Crazy memories...
Oh, Grandpa. God bless you. :)
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
In A Galaxy Far, Far Away...
Text message exchange with my brother:
Me: "Today is Star Wars Day! May the 4th be with you!"
Me: "And tomorrow, May the 5th once again rule the Galaxy!"
Him: "Jabba the Hut 8th me for dinner."
Followed by this haiku:
"Star Wars was real good.
Wookiees rule; they're so sexy.
Yoda is horny."
Suck on that, Lucas.
Me: "Today is Star Wars Day! May the 4th be with you!"
Me: "And tomorrow, May the 5th once again rule the Galaxy!"
Him: "Jabba the Hut 8th me for dinner."
Followed by this haiku:
"Star Wars was real good.
Wookiees rule; they're so sexy.
Yoda is horny."
Suck on that, Lucas.
Like There's Not Enough Of The Real Ones Down In The Subways...
That goddamn inflatable rat the union picketers are always using is in front of my building today. I hate that fucking thing. So of course, I had to go out on my lunch break and harass them about it...
Me: "Just out of curiosity, how much does it cost to rent the rat?"
Union guy: "Actually, it's ours."
Me: "Seriously? You OWN the rat? How much did you pay for that thing?"
Union guy, yelling over his shoulder: "Hey, Joey — how much for da rat?"
Joey: "About 8 grand."
Me: "Eight GRAND? Are you kidding me?"
Union guy: "Nope, 8 grand. And lemme tell you, it's paid for itself several times over."
I have no idea how a fucking inflatable rat generates income, but I'd still like to harpoon the damn thing. Too bad there's never any hunting spears around when you need 'em...
Me: "Just out of curiosity, how much does it cost to rent the rat?"
Union guy: "Actually, it's ours."
Me: "Seriously? You OWN the rat? How much did you pay for that thing?"
Union guy, yelling over his shoulder: "Hey, Joey — how much for da rat?"
Joey: "About 8 grand."
Me: "Eight GRAND? Are you kidding me?"
Union guy: "Nope, 8 grand. And lemme tell you, it's paid for itself several times over."
I have no idea how a fucking inflatable rat generates income, but I'd still like to harpoon the damn thing. Too bad there's never any hunting spears around when you need 'em...
Monday, May 3, 2010
Quote Of The Day/Year/Decade
From Mississippi Mama via Project RunGay:
"Justin Bieber makes me want to drop-kick a red-tailed hawk into a brush fire."
"Justin Bieber makes me want to drop-kick a red-tailed hawk into a brush fire."
Sunday, May 2, 2010
My Turn
You know what, Dad? Fuck you. Those were MY jeans. So what if they had holes in the knees and I wanted to wear them to church? I was 14! That's what 14-year-olds do — they act out. They rebel. It's not a sin, for Christ's sake. I didn't even want to go to church; Mom was making me. And she made me change, too, didn't she? So what was the problem, huh? So what if I sulked through the whole Mass — you weren't even there! You never came to church with us. You thought it was a waste of time just as much as I did. So how could it have even remotely mattered to you what I wore there?
Those were MY jeans. I paid for them with MY money, from the job YOU made me get, and you had NO RIGHT to slice them up each leg with a pocket knife and leave them on top of the kitchen garbage can for me to find when we got home. Not even IN the garbage can, but ON TOP of the garbage can, so I'd be sure to see them and "learn my lesson." What the fuck, Dad? And way to be a man about it and not even be in the room when I found them. To not even say anything when I started crying. To not even acknowledge me when I slammed my bedroom door and screamed "That’s not fair!" And yeah, sure, that's another thing teenagers do — they slam doors and cry "it's not fair." But this time, I think I had a right.
And you know what else? Fuck you. What kind of 14-year-old girl confides her deep-secret boy troubles to her father? Never mind what kind of 14-year-old would ever trust anyone, with anything, ever again after that stunt with the "holy" jeans. And what kind of father, with his heartbroken daughter sniffling and hugging her Nuffy Bear and playing Gloria Estefan's "Anything For You" on an endless loop, as she shook her head sadly and hiccupped, "I don't want to talk about it!" would make her feel even worse by responding, "You can't even talk to your own father? Gee, thanks," and leaving the room in a huff? What kind of insensitive, self-centered jerk does that to a kid?
And what kind of thougtless, manipulative jerk thinks he’s going to get away with repeating that routine on the next daughter, once the 14-year-old has grown up, contemptuous and resentful, and while she's still there to intercede? What kind of big sister wouldn't protect her impressionable little sister from the same hurtful bullying she’d had to endure? What responsible and sympathetic sibling wouldn't expertly deflect that negative attention back to her own hardened self to shield someone she loved? What kind of self-preserving sister wouldn't speak up for the other, for herself, to say everything she should have said then, when she was angry and miserable and 14?
Not this one.
Fuck you. Those were MY jeans.
Those were MY jeans. I paid for them with MY money, from the job YOU made me get, and you had NO RIGHT to slice them up each leg with a pocket knife and leave them on top of the kitchen garbage can for me to find when we got home. Not even IN the garbage can, but ON TOP of the garbage can, so I'd be sure to see them and "learn my lesson." What the fuck, Dad? And way to be a man about it and not even be in the room when I found them. To not even say anything when I started crying. To not even acknowledge me when I slammed my bedroom door and screamed "That’s not fair!" And yeah, sure, that's another thing teenagers do — they slam doors and cry "it's not fair." But this time, I think I had a right.
And you know what else? Fuck you. What kind of 14-year-old girl confides her deep-secret boy troubles to her father? Never mind what kind of 14-year-old would ever trust anyone, with anything, ever again after that stunt with the "holy" jeans. And what kind of father, with his heartbroken daughter sniffling and hugging her Nuffy Bear and playing Gloria Estefan's "Anything For You" on an endless loop, as she shook her head sadly and hiccupped, "I don't want to talk about it!" would make her feel even worse by responding, "You can't even talk to your own father? Gee, thanks," and leaving the room in a huff? What kind of insensitive, self-centered jerk does that to a kid?
And what kind of thougtless, manipulative jerk thinks he’s going to get away with repeating that routine on the next daughter, once the 14-year-old has grown up, contemptuous and resentful, and while she's still there to intercede? What kind of big sister wouldn't protect her impressionable little sister from the same hurtful bullying she’d had to endure? What responsible and sympathetic sibling wouldn't expertly deflect that negative attention back to her own hardened self to shield someone she loved? What kind of self-preserving sister wouldn't speak up for the other, for herself, to say everything she should have said then, when she was angry and miserable and 14?
Not this one.
Fuck you. Those were MY jeans.
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